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I hand her my phone, and she cradles it in her palms, her eyes lifting to meet mine before she reads. My mouth a tight line, I nod once. I have to let go, and honestly, I need her to know everything I know. I am so tired of being at the bottom alone.
Her gaze drops and I hold my breath as her eyes scan left to right. It’s when they stop moving that I know her heart just broke.
“Remember what I said. None of this is you. Nothing changes about how I feel aboutyou.”
Her head nods softly, but her eyes remain on my phone screen. It’s hard to wait through the silence, but I must. This isn’t the kind of thing that can be rushed, no matter how badly I want to race through to the end, to find something happy there. Anything happy.
It takes her minutes to finally release my phone from her grasp. I tuck it into my pocket and nudge her chin up until our eyes meet. Her light is gone, and I’m so sorry I was the one who turned it off.
“Your dad came to see me yesterday, after the game.”
Her eyes tilt and her brow grows heavier.
“He told me not—”
“Don’t.” She presses her palm on my chest, stopping me before I relay her father’s warning to me.
She shakes her head as her eyes blink rapidly before her gaze snaps to mine.
“What he said doesn’t matter. Nothing he says . . . matters.” Her jaw flexes at the end of her words. I recognize this mixture of heartbreak and anger.
I lean my head to the side.
“Come home with me?” I need her. She needs me.
She blinks away tears that are not coming. She’s too angry to cry. Too disappointed to cry.
“Home,” she says, pulling that single thread out and letting it settle the static in the air.
“Home,” I echo. I guess yes, this place, my tiny half of a room, is home—the most home I’ve ever had, really. My six years as a student here have given me a place to build an identity, and it’s the only place in my entire life that I’ve been able to.
Brooklyn hooks her fingers through mine then leads me away from the chairs, picking up her bag from the floor and some leather folder that she shoves inside. Like zombies, we amble through the shelves and the silent library lobby, across the main lawn, and into my dorm. Without a single word exchanged, I slip out of my shoes and shove the clothes from my bed before lying down against the wall so I can pull Brooklyn into my arms to rest against me. Back to chest, we take long, deep breaths. Sleep won’t come for me, and I doubt it will for her, but this quiet room with nothing but the two of us is the only medicine I need. This is therapy. It’s real love.
“I wish you told me about your grandparents.”
Her soft voice still cuts sharp. My chest tightens, but only for a minute. I’ve gotten so used to not talking about my relationship to Welles, to the headmaster—at their request—that deception was never my intent. I’ve spent years hating them and their rules, resenting the times I was forced to stay with them for months at a time. When I turned fifteen and was able to stand up for myself, to refuse, I was liberated. Lying about who they were quit being a lie. They became an occasional obligation. I needed this school. Mom needed their money. And that was it.
“I wish they weren’t my grandparents,” I finally say. It’s all there is to say. It’s the truth.
After a few seconds, Brooklyn pulls my hand to her lips and kisses the back of it before pressing my palm against her cheek.
“Okay,” she breathes. “Okay.”
For hours we lie in silence. I stroke her arm with a gentle touch and visualize that I’m actually burying all of the garbage that’s been heaped upon us in the last twenty-four hours.
Fingertips roam to her wrist—I push the shovel into the dirt.
A slow line drawn up to her shoulder—I throw the dirt over my shoulder.
Once the hole is deep enough, I push everything in. My mom’s resentment and fear. My grandparents’ harsh rules and greed. Every single day I missed my dad. It all goes in the hole, and I bury it with every breath Brooklyn takes in my arms.
Chapter18
Brooklyn
At 4 a.m., Cameron finally found sleep. His body and mind agreed he had enough, that he needed a break. I turned in his arms and watched him for hours. Every twitch of the eyelid and part of his lips made me wonder and hope if he was in a dream. His mouth rested in the softest smile, the hint of it so small that if I weren’t looking this closely, I would miss it.
But it’s there. The smile is still there. Even now as the sun threatens to break through his window and light up this room.
